


I can't stand the silence

by i_am_mycroft_holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, PTSD Mycroft, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_mycroft_holmes/pseuds/i_am_mycroft_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has been taken and tortured, relatively happy ending. I'm terrible at summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'd yet, but my computer keeps breaking so I'm uploading it now.

Mycroft was no stranger to seeing political agitators and opponents put into prison, but he never believed he would end up in one himself, especially not with his position in the British Government. Still, it did not do to dwell on things such as that. It was a rather nice cell all things considered. It was a small room, but adequately furnished with a bed, sink, toilet and even a chair. He’d made use of the chair when he’d arrived, hanging his jacket on the back and placing most of his suit on the chair whilst he slept in the bed. It was firm, but otherwise comfortable enough to sleep in, and the thin blankets provided sufficient warmth in the night.

He slowly developed a routine, not so very different from his one at home. He rose from bed when awoken - although instead of an alarm, there was a loud bell – and he washed himself with the meagre amount of soap provided and the lukewarm water in the sink. He dressed himself once again and settled in his chair to think. Every 5 hours during the day a prison guard came in and roughly forced Mycroft’s hands into irons and placed a blindfold over his eyes, whilst food was brought to him on a tray and it was placed on his lap. Despite the humiliation he felt by being handled in such a way, he thanked the person for the food and was soon freed to eat in solitude and silence. He’d soon worked out the times of day from the meals. He washed his entire body every 2 days and used the blanket as a towel, placing it in a folded pile by the doorway where he ignored it, and the next day it was returned clean. Someone seemed very keen to keep him agreeable, he was well provided for, and even the tasteless food had some substance to it.

This routine continued for some weeks, he’d contemplate what was happening whilst he was absent, or even what would be given to him for lunch. And then it suddenly changed. He was sat in the chair, awaiting a meal and instead, was transported to a different room. Smaller, with only a mattress, although with a window; something of a blessing to have fresh air after so long.


	2. Chapter 2

Then the torture.

It wasn’t physical; he was as presentable as the day he was taken into this place, although a little tired. It was psychological, and incredibly effective. Bright lights blinded him every time he tried to sleep, unbearable amounts of white noises 24 hours of the day. The constant supply of food stopped, being placed in front of his cell, just out of reach. The guards bashing the bars of his cell whenever he went to his mind palace. A flurry of different sensations bombarded him every hour of the day; a cacophony of sounds assaulted his hearing. His stomach complained about the lack of food, his head complained about the lack of sleep and so much noise.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing. Then there was nothing.

At first Mycroft imagined that someone had quite thankfully placed a bullet in his head, but it was not so. A pity really, it would have been kind.

Still there was nothing, except the dull aching in his chest with every breath, as though straining against something. His eyes were open, ‘but their senses shut’, he thought to himself, a distraction in the form of Shakespeare. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or concerned about the silence, but the lack of touch was most concerning for him. He called out, and nothing happened. He believed himself to be alone.

It varied. The torture, it changed and wore him down. He could be put to bed without knowing what had happened the day before and wake the next morning to bright lights being shone in his eyes and shouted at.

It took a few months until he started to crack under the pressure, under the stress he felt. He was put to sleep one night, still restrained and without sight. When he awoke, there were people surrounding him (so terribly noisy), and he was helped into a chair. He assumed they were fearful of him, for the restraints were still in place, but they had little reason to be. He was sane, at least he believed so.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mr Holmes you haven’t been very cooperative. I regret what has happened to you but it was necessary.” The voice came from his left and it was female, not too different from his assistant’s voice. It was rather odd, having business conducted in a way that he wasn’t in control.

“I believe I haven’t yet had a chance for a civilised conversation and I have absolutely no idea what information you require.”

His head turned at the sound of the door opening and heard a tray being placed on the table, the smell of Earl Grey gently filling the room and a very soft sigh escaped his lips. He missed his cup of tea most of all, out of everything he had to been deprived of.

“How do you take your tea Mr Holmes?”

“Very little milk with two sugars, thank you. Although I may find difficulty drinking it in such a position as I am.”

He found his hands freed within a moment and they were soon guided to the warm china cup by gentle feminine hands. He was certain that he recognised those hands, although he did not comment, taking a slow sip of the tea, feeling the scalding liquid fill his mouth and the taste of Earl Grey lingering as he placed the cup down onto the saucer, although with a little assistance.

“Forgive me for asking, but where am I? This is certainly an odd way to conduct a questioning.”

The reply was short and followed by a few footsteps. “Mr Holmes, you are in a hospital, and I’m not here to conduct a questioning. I just fear your reaction to the settings.”

A different voice, a man’s, with a slight London accent, and then light, although dimmed by a hand over his eyes. “Myc, don’t be scared… You’re safe now.”

Mycroft’s damaged eyes sought out Greg’s own eyes, his tea forgotten momentarily. “I don’t quite understand…”

He never got to finish the sentence, he was interrupted and his eyes glanced around the room now they had adjusted to the light, it was clean and comfortable, although he was too tired to appreciate it. He saw Anthea, his brother seemed to sulking near the back of all the people.

“Sir, I’m so sorry for the deception, but you weren’t well enough to travel whilst awake, and you have been suffering from nightmares and sleep-walking. The nightmares made you move around far too much to be safe in a car.” She took a deep breath and smiled at him. “But, you’ll be home in a manner of days. Your house needs a good clean and the doctors will not let you leave just yet.” She wasn’t very good at being sympathetic, but Mycroft seemed too astounded to be concerned about something so trivial as emotions.

“Yes, yes… Very well. I’d like some company if possible, I have had enough of solitude in the past…”

“5 months sir. You’ve been gone for 5 months.” Anthea finished for him, sensing his confusion over the matter.


	5. Chapter 5

It was good to be home… His eyes roamed over the familiar settings as he walked in, although with the aid of a cane. Psychosomatic injury; it was to be expected of course, with his diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. He was dressed simply, just a pair of black trousers and a light blue shirt. Anthea had brought him a change of clothes to the hospital which he’d learnt was St Bart’s, which would explain his brother’s frequent visits.

Mycroft found a freshly baked cake sat on the table in the kitchen, a black forest gateau. He helped himself to a generous slice (his hand shaking slightly), cream, chocolate and cherries looked so very good. A pot of tea accompanied that slice of cake. And the second.

Content with the knowledge that Gregory would arrive soon, so that he wouldn’t be alone whilst recuperating from his imprisonment in North Korea – that is where Anthea had said he was. They didn’t take kindly to his interference apparently. It was of no consequence, he had been told to stay off work for at least another week, and to relax in that time.

His ears picked up the sound of a key in the door and he rose from his chair and limped to the door to meet Greg.

“My dear Gregory, thank you for coming…” He was going to continue, but he was embraced and he knew he was home.

_Thank you my dear, for bringing me home._


End file.
